Table Of ContentLife seemed so uncertain lately, with the pending war and the dreaded arrival of
the Davies. Worst of all were Duncan’s unexpected actions. For the first time in
her life she felt distant from her cousin and alone.
What could she do to stop the swiftly turning events? She turned her face into
the Sassenach’s shoulder, hiding it in the clean shirt Mary had dressed him in.
She rubbed her cheek against him, savoring the feel of his muscled shoulder. If
Duncan could have seen her he would have been furious, but that did not
frighten her. Far more than Duncan’s anger, she feared her own weakness where
the Sassenach was concerned.
The mere memory of their kiss in the forest was as warm and real as if it were
happening again, at that very instant, and it took all of her strength not to lift her
head and place her lips upon his once again.
She shut her eyes tightly and kept her head upon his chest. I am becoming
bewitched. But how can I forget this man and content myself with the boy my
cousin has chosen?
She opened her eyes and sighed. It seemed so spiritless to do as she was told, to
follow the well-worn path of all womankind since the beginning of life.
Well, she was certain she’d think of something.
She had to.
Chapter Seven
Thomas paced in front of the fire in his bedchamber, wincing every time he put
his weight upon his bruised leg. It hurt, but he knew the only way to work out
the stiffness was to walk.
He scowled. His mission was foiled, for not only had he been caught, but when
he’d awoken, the letter he’d come to fetch had been removed from his tattered
clothes.
He ground his teeth at the thought. It had been tempting to ask after it, but that
would only have exposed him more thoroughly, if that was even possible.
He limped on, glancing around the pleasant room. Laird MacLean must be more
financially set than Walsingham realized. Thick, richly woven rugs covered the
polished flagstone floor and complemented the large ornate trunk and a pair of
fine red-cushioned oak chairs. A cheery fire warmed the smooth stone walls and
lit the rich red velvet hangings that hung about the huge bed.
As prisons went, this one was grand enough for royalty. But even more
impressive had been the number of visitors he’d been allowed. Not only had
Mary, Fia’s troublesome maid, visited him, but so had Fia and Laird MacLean.
He saw Fia the least, which irked him. She darted in and out, always in the
presence of Mary. While Fia’s gaze assessed his well-being, she never remained
long enough for a genuine conversation. Thomas found it exasperating; the
tantalizing glimpses only fanned the attraction he felt for her.
And he did feel an attraction; he couldn’t deny it. But what man would not? The
woman was beautiful, her dark eyes mysterious and warm, her movements
graceful, her voice rich and seductive—he ached just thinking of her.
He found himself hoping that every step in the hallway outside his door might be
hers, though far too often it was not.
Where Fia refused to linger, her cousin surprisingly seemed to have too much
time upon his hands. When the laird came to visit, he stayed talking of this and
time upon his hands. When the laird came to visit, he stayed talking of this and
that, carrying on a conversation of a depth normally reserved for close
compatriots.
MacLean asked as many questions as he answered and seemed determined to
take Thomas’s measure, though to what end, he would not say.
Thomas soon discovered that MacLean was very well-read and could discuss
politics, religion, travels, philosophy, even music and plays with great ease. If
nothing else, the visits made the days pass.
Today, though, something was happening. For one, he’d been left alone for most
of the day; even Mary’s visit this morning had been rushed and distracted.
For another, the courtyard bustled with people arriving hourly, the hallways
noisy with the call of servants. Something—or someone—had arrived.
Thomas paused by his door and listened. Though he could hear the calls and
murmurs, none of them told him anything. He grasped the handle and slowly
turned it . . . to no avail. He was still locked in, a prisoner.
Cursing under his breath, he resumed pacing. Damn it, what does MacLean have
planned? And where is Fia? Do these visitors have anything to do with her?
I shouldn’t be thinking about her. I should be thinking about escaping. He
glanced at the fine clock that adorned the mantel. It was nigh on three in the
afternoon. Perhaps this commotion was just what he needed to escape. If he
could twine his bedsheets into a rope that could reach the top of the second floor,
at least, he might be able to—
He paused, hearing the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching down the
hall, followed by the murmur of someone greeting the guards. Then the oak door
opened and Mary entered, her arms full of clothing. “Och, ye’re up! Good, fer
I’ve ordered a nice hot bath fer ye.”
Every morning for the last week, Thomas had awakened to the sight of the
maid’s wide, dimpled smile and freckled, weathered face. Until this week, he
hadn’t realized how wearisome habitual cheerfulness could become.
Mary smiled brightly and placed the clothes in a chair, but there was something
Mary smiled brightly and placed the clothes in a chair, but there was something
different about her, a squaring of her jaw that bespoke a decision of some sort.
Hmm. I wonder what’s toward now? “’Tis kind of you to bring me better
clothing.”
“’Twas no’ my idea. Lady Fia sent this.”
“A pity I won’t see her to thank her myself. I noticed the commotion in the
courtyard.
Visitors have arrived, I take it.”
The smile on Mary’s face dimmed. “Aye, we’ve visitors.”
“Who?”
Mary didn’t meet his gaze but began to straighten the clothing she’d brought,
sorting through them to pull out a very fine lawn shirt with lace cuffs. “Clan
Davies has arrived.”
“The whole clan?”
“Many of them; their laird and his mother will come soon.” She held out a shirt.
“Do ye think ye might fit these? They may be too large.”
He accepted the shirt, noting that while ’twas of obvious quality, ’twas far too
large for him. Fia must have pilfered her cousin’s wardrobe, probably without
his knowledge.
“’Twill fit well enough.”
“Good. I’ll tell Lady Fia; she was worried it might not.”
Thomas absently rubbed the finely woven cloth between his fingers. While he’d
been unconscious, he’d dreamed of Fia—of her sitting beside him, regaling him
with tales, her soothing voice sending him into a deeper and yet deeper sleep.
He’d been so involved in his dreams that when he’d finally awakened, his first
thought had been of her.
A large clang sounded in the hallway, and Mary said, “Ah, yer water.” She went
to open to the door as the sound of voices rose in the hallway. “’Twill be good
fer ye to soak in some hot water.” She opened the door and a group of men
carried in a huge tub. More followed with buckets of steaming water.
Mary bustled about the room, straightening as she went. “Ye won’t believe what
a flutter the whole castle’s in. Lady Davies and her son are to arrive on the
morrow. They sent almost two hundred men to secure the way. They’ve set up
camp outside the castle walls.”
He hobbled to the window, unlatched the shutter, and threw it open, grimacing
as his sore muscles protested. He leaned out the window, the waning afternoon
sun unable to hold back the chilled wind. His room was on the third level, the
surrounding wall across the courtyard almost even with his window. Lines of
tents had been erected on the fields outside of the castle gate. Bloody hell. The
entire place is surrounded.
His heart sank and he closed the shutters. “That’s a large number. Do they
always travel with their pennants flying?”
“’Tis a very important visit. The laird has had Lady Fia with a seamstress fer the
last day, sewing pearls upon her best gown. She will be presiding over the
banquet.”
He shrugged. “As is usual for the lady of the castle.”
Mary shook her head, her smile dimmed. “Nay, fer the laird would never allow it
before.
He’s very protective of her.”
“Why is she to be at this banquet, then?”
Mary glanced at the servants filling the tub and said in a low tone, “The laird’s
decided
’tis time fer Lady Fia to do her duty.”
’Twas obvious there was more to it than that, but Mary would say no more in
front of the other servants. Thomas waited impatiently until the men left,
swinging the door wide as they did so.
swinging the door wide as they did so.
Thomas took the opportunity to count the men posted as guards. One, two, three
—ah.
Five of them, and all burly men equipped with swords and knives.
He rubbed his black beard. Even if he did manage to overcome the guards, he
would be lost in the maze of hallways. He needed a guide, someone who knew
the castle and could find a way past the encampment outside the walls. Someone
like Fia.
Mary closed the door and returned to place some thick towels by the tub. “Get in
the tub, me lord. ’Twill help those aches and pains of yers.”
The clean, steaming water beckoned and he undressed as fast as his aching thigh
would allow, Mary assisting as she could.
He soon slipped into the water with a thankful sigh. He had to find a way out of
this predicament. Though the letter had been the ultimate prize and he’d lost it,
he’d still managed to collect some good information that would benefit
Walsingham and England.
If he could just make it to his ship, his efforts would not have been wasted.
Mary placed the rest of the clothes upon his bed. “I dinna know if the clothes
will fit, but they’re better than what ye had.”
Thomas slid deeper into the hot water. “So tell me more of clan Davies.”
Mary’s face darkened. “There’s not much more to tell. ’Twill be a grand banquet
and the kitchens are cooking all sorts of fine dishes—ten geese, a roasted pig,
and lamb stew.”
Thomas’s stomach rumbled and she nodded. “Aye, ye’ll get a portion, too. Lady
Fia will see to that.” Mary pulled a small stool to the side of the tub and sat, then
took a small cloth and a cake of soap and began to lather it. “I worry fer Lady
Fia, I do. Ye should worry, too.”
“Me? Why?”
“Me? Why?”
“Because once she’s gone, no one will stand betwixt ye and the laird. ’Twill be
the dungeon wit’ ye then.”
Thomas didn’t like the enthusiasm Mary was displaying as she lathered her
hands, her expression determined, as though she were getting ready to attack an
especially crusted and greasy pan.
“’Twill be a fine banquet, indeed. There’s to be raspberry tarts, savory turtle
soup, bread pudding—”
“I’m sure ’twill be a fine feast.” He eyed her narrowly. “Mistress Mary, is there
a reason you keep bringing up this banquet? I cannot help but notice that you are
upset.”
The maid’s lips quivered, and for a horrible moment he thought she might burst
into tears. She gave a great sniff, wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, and
then began to scrub his shoulder as if her life depended upon it. “I’m upset
because the laird’s decided
’tis time to marry Fia off to Malcolm Davies.”
“The laird of the clan?”
“Pssht. His mother rules that clan, and everyone knows it. He’s the laird in name
alone.”
“God’s wounds, you cannot be serious.”
“Aye, the ceremony is to be held before the week’s end.”
“That’s rather sudden, isn’t it?”
“In some ways, aye. The laird wishes his cousin to be safe. The Davies are a
powerful clan and should be able to withstand any number of attacks, even in
these coming times.”
“Coming times?”
“Aye. The troubles have come to Scotland. The queen—” Mary’s lips folded
together in a straight line. “Howe’er ’tis, the laird’s decided Fia’s to marry
Malcolm Davies and will no’ listen to reason.”
Thomas couldn’t shake the thought of Fia getting married. Not that he wished to
marry her himself, for he didn’t. Fia was not the type of woman one married; she
was too impulsive, too wanton, too everything. When he married, it would be to
a properly raised Englishwoman who would benefit his name and knew how to
control her spirit. Nothing led to ruin faster than marriage to a woman of
passion; his own history told him that.
Still, he couldn’t help damning the fates. First they put that maddening Scottish
wench in his path, with her tempting mouth and lush curves, and then they
expected him to sit idly by while her giant cousin married her off. “When’s the
wedding?”
“Sunday.”
“At one time, I thought Duncan and Fia were to be married.”
“Whist, now! Shame on ye fer thinkin’ such a thing. The laird treats Fia like a
sister, he does. And now he’s marryin’ her to that Malcolm Davies.”
“And Fia is not pleased?”
“She’d rather eat rusted nails.”
Thomas frowned. “I do not hold with forced marriages. They benefit no one.”
The maid looked at Thomas speculatively.
“What?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing,” she replied in a tone that said the opposite. The maid rubbed his
shoulders with the warm cloth, her touch brisk and impersonal. “So . . . it seems
that both ye and Lady Fia are in a mite of a fix. Once Lady Fia’s away with her
new husband, there’s no reason fer the laird to keep ye alive. ’Tis only because
of her that ye’re not restin’ in the damp cellar, trussed like a Michaelmas goose.”
Many times in the last four days Thomas had heard from Mary the story of how
Fia had intervened for him with her cousin, so he wisely didn’t say a word.
Fia had intervened for him with her cousin, so he wisely didn’t say a word.
“’Tis a good thing she put her foot down and demanded ye be given this
chamber,” Mary continued. “Ye’d have not lived long in the damp cellar. Not to
mention the laird’s been a bit distracted this week, and ’tis possible no one
would have thought to feed ye.”
So Fia had that much influence over MacLean. It was strange that Walsingham,
with his endless web of information, hadn’t mentioned the laird’s taking cousin
before now.
“Aye,” Mary continued, “the laird loves only two things: Scotland and his
cousin. Fia has been his charge since she was a wee mite. Lord MacLean had
just begun to scrape the whiskers from his chin when the little lass was brought
here at her parents’ deaths and placed in his care. I was a scrub maid at the time
and I took to her right away, as we all did. She’s brought light and happiness to
the household ’til we canno’ remember what
’twas like without her. Now she’s to be wed to a weak-kneed brute and I—”
Mary wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Och, now. Look what ye’ve made me do! I
was goin’ to offer ye a way to escape from certain death, and instead ye got me
weepin’ like a babe.”
Thomas straightened in the tub. “Escape? Do you know a secret way out of the
castle?
One that would avoid the men camped outside?” Many castles had such
passageways; it was how their inhabitants restocked their stores or escaped when
under seige.
The maid nodded, her graying red curls bouncing along. “Aye, I know the secret
way.
But” —she eyed him with a somber expression—“there’s a price fer such help.”
“Name it.”
“Ye have to take the lass with ye.”
“You mean Lady Fia?”
